The Blissful Hiker learns that her subconscious needed this journey of thousands of steps on the Te Araroa as well as important lessons about taking measured leaps of faith and letting go of the need to control to allow the trail itself to provide.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Poema del Pastor Coya by Angel Lasala as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
The Blissful Hiker learns that her subconscious needed this journey of thousands of steps on the Te Araroa as well as important lessons about taking measured leaps of faith and letting go of the need to control to allow the trail itself to provide.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Poema del Pastor Coya by Angel Lasala as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
Note to self: no more setting up on a slope. It was wonderful staying at Betty’s – and to be fair, she offered me a bed inside her home. But I stubbornly set up the alicoop on her lawn, never really finding a flat spot. I slid off my thermarest and woke up over and over to readjust until one strip of equilibrium materialized and I dropped to sleep. Only to be awakened by an overly eager bird on a branch just above my head. He’s been cranked up since before sunrise. I love the exotic but this guy’s got a mic!
I’ve been sharing the story of my thru-hike of New Zealand’s Te Araroa with you on The Pee Rag. Today, I am in Ruakaka near Whangerei in Northland, only an hour’s drive out of Auckland – but still, many days walking for me. Betty invited me to camp on her lawn last night then calls me back insdie to watch the sunrise over the ocean. From this angle, I can see all of Bream Head, the Mt. Lion and the coves and beaches I visited as I walked. The Te Araroa cuts back out to civilization right after the summit, but I followed the longer circular path, and I’m glad I did, getting the chance to have a private cove all to myself.
I’m right back on the beach this morning, the clouds mirrored in the low tide’s shellacked surface. I see a backpacker far ahead of me carrying low weight and seemingly walking each step.
So let me tally up how I’ve progressed thus far. I’ve used boats three times – into the Waikare Inlet from Pahia, across the Ngunguru River and finally, yesterday, across Whangerei Harbor. Sure, there are ways to avoid crossings, but they involve long, convoluted road walks and hitching. A long thru-hike with water crossings is part of the fun.
Twice, I’ve accepted rides for short distances, one past a closed section of forest between Ahipara and Kaitaia when Peter walked with me, and, just last night, when Betty ferried me from the store to her house. But I don’t want to skip anything. I want to walk the entire length of this country and take it all in, the good, the bad and the ugly. But other hikers who don’t walk it all are using a pejorative term for people like me – “purist” I think a better term would be thru-hiker and those who skip, hitch-hikers, but I’m pretty sure they would not appreciate that.
Shells are everywhere on the windswept beach, sand dollars broken in triangle pie servings, flattened scallops that look like bare feet, and delicately fluted spirals. I polish off a bag of chips as a hiker marches past, head down, earbuds jammed in. She barely notices me – or anything, it would seem.
I can’t help but wonder as I slowly follow her, who I’ll pair up with when I’ll need to canoe down the Whanganui River. That’s a month away at least, and, if I’ve learned anything, best left there in the future.
A kiwi sets up a long-line shot out by torpedo two kilometers into the ocean. He tells me he sends it out, takes a two hour walk, and then has enough snapper for family and friends. Too bad I’m walking on. He also tells me where to get coffee ahead. I’m too polite to tell him I’m off caffeine, but appreciate knowing there is nothing after Waipo.
And it is a sweet little place I come to, Little Red Coffee where I order a Beetroot Black Currant Ginger Almighty and unload all my trash. I remember meeting an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker in the White Mountains who told me he loves trash cans. I understand what he means now, not wanting to lug it around. A sand blister develops on my heel, but I still have plenty of bandages in the pack. It’s just a small bit of road walk and I wave at every car politely, which somehow keeps them from passing too closely.
Ah, a separated walking track. Kiwis I’ve met have told me that New Zealand is slowly building bike and hike trails and here is a beautiful example.
But it’s only two kilometers, ugh, and I’m right back on the road. Dangerous curves, fast drivers, it’s nerve-wracking. A truck whizzes past and my hat flies off in a cloud of dust.
Finally, I peal off and go uphill to views far back to Bream Head. Now I see how high Mt. Lion is. No wonder I’m so hungry! There are no cars on this road as it winds up and up. Logging scars are everywhere and there’s no shade, but a cooling wind refreshes me as I drink a can of Marlborough blush, and break open cheese and sausage and a wee bit of melting Whitaker’s chocolate.
I have a small sugar and alcohol buzz as I continue still higher, looking out towards humpy islands. Signs begin to appear; red hearts and arrows. Trail angels lead the way.
They lead me to DragonSpell, a kind of hippy commune meets backpacker paradise. The sign at the end of the drive indicates “long walkers welcome.” That would be me, so I head up for a look, even though it’s far too early in the day to stop.
At first, it appears deserted, so I wander around taking in the ramshackle buildings with attention paid to detail – and fulfilling hikers’ needs, including comfortable bunks, a well stocked kitchen with free veggies and eggs, a hot shower, spring water, a clothes line and an awesome hang out area.
The caretaker Johnny finally shows up after I see that I need to ring the bell. He’s husky, dressed in a tee shirt and shorts, crew socks but no shoes, a full beard, bright blue eyes and the most generous nature. He offers me a cup of tea right away on his balcony, rolls a cigarette and it’s as though we’re old friends just picking up from wherever it was we left off. I tell him about all the good fortune that has come my way over the past few days, that even though I twisted my ankle and had to slow down, I met amazing people at just the right moment, camped and swam in exquisite places I had all to myself.
An American hiker named Nate shows up not intending to stay, but just asking for some water. He walked another thru-hike last year, the Arizona Trail, and when I tell him what we’re talking about, he says he’s not surprised at all. It’s the trail itself, the trail always provides.
Johnny rolls another cigarette and Nate takes off. I decide I’m loving it here too much to leave, so I set the alicoop next to a picnic table in a field looking past bush to the ocean. I return with food to cook for dinner when a neighbor shows up, a man who renamed himself Omra, a name that means the personification of divine energy.
Omra is a German immigrant, a psychologist who studied with a guru in India and specializes in astrology and numerology. No subject is off-limits and we talk non-stop and laugh about life, love, and how badly I need this trail to sort out myself just now.
I am the only guest until one young man shows up and tucks in under a tree without a view and without so much as a hello. Which is just fine by me, because I have the balcony, Omra and Johnny all to myself.
The shadows get longer and after covering every subject imaginable, Omra bids us adieu and it’s time to make some food. I suggest we make it a date and combine resources. Now how is it that a backpacker has more stuff to share then Dragonspell’s caretaker? I offer up pasta, salami and cheese and Johnny contributes fresh veg for a dinner creation only a hiker – and a bachelor – could stomach.
Johnny tells me Venus is in retrograde which means it’s time to develop self-love. Omra earlier mentions the same; without self-love, we have no identity. No one else can fulfill this most basic need. The stars come out competing with the half moon and it’s time for me to sleep, completely bowled over by today’s beauty, friendship and all the serendipitous moments.
A grand sleep with the resident kiwi singing through the night accompanied by waves rumbling far below. I dream about a person who hasn’t been in my life a long time, feeling that familiar out-of-control reaction to him, but in sleep, I rewrite the ending.
Omra and Johnny let me speak about not fitting in, wanting a group of friends, but finding being alone is working for me, even if I have to weigh all decisions myself. I do have contact with Richard, so I’m not completely alone, but we’re 19 hours apart.
My confidence is building – and so is my trust – that it will all work out. This doesn’t come easily to this control freak. I traded the (mostly) known but beginning to be routine life I was living for a long trail that, even with so much information, remains to be revealed. Omra would say my subconscious needed this, even if it’s hard for me.
The trail begins in sun-dappled bush, Johnny heads to town ahead of me and puts up a ‘keep out’ sign at the end of the driveway. I arrived just in time.
Traps and poison are set all along the track for stoats, weasels, possums and rats – all introduced species that have wreaked havoc on the bird population. It’s a gruesome business, possums have to be trapped live then clubbed. But if they’re skinned immediately, the prized soft pelt can be blended with merino.
I ponder why I dreamed about that sad chapter from so long ago, a man who told me I’d need to quit my beloved job and sell my house to be with him. I was so in his thrall, I would have done anything he said.
To this day, I thank the goddess she broke the spell and I was set free. Next to my dystonia diagnosis, that was the saddest period of my life, but one that forced me to claim my life back and take full responsibility for it.
This path reminds me of Colorado, steep with loose ball-bearing-like stones. Soon I reach a road, but the trail turns off, twists around and lets me out up the road, which I have to walk right back down again.
I could have just crossed it! Damn purist!
I meet a grumpy man wearing a Bernie Sanders t-shirt who became a New Zealand citizen 27 years ago. I can’t make out if he supports social democrats or that was all he had to wear.
The young ultra-minimalist Kiwi who stayed under the trees last night passes me, his thin legs supporting a day pack walk him ahead to the Mangawhai cliffs.
I stop to eat two kiwis, succulent and tangy. For a good portion of my life, I maintained a rescue fantasy. Fiercely defiant about my independence, though secretly longing for the princely kiss to awaken me to my true self.
If Omra’s philosophy is to be believed, the natural conclusion to my life script was that relationship I dreamed about, one where I gave away my power and lost myself.
I’m pretty sure I’m not looking for anyone here, but I’m confused how disconnected I feel from other hikers, and that forces me to look squarely at what expectations I bring with me.
Am I ‘hiking my own hike’ or am I hoping friends appear – thus lessening the challenge and possible serendipitous encounters along the way?
Just when you thought the view couldn’t improve, it gets even more spectacular; azure sea expands towards rocky islands, gnarled trees covered with orchids. Soon I join the tiny ant people I see far below on the beach. Scallops flat, heavy, colorful, pressed in by the tide.
It’s a sizeable detour around the harbor, through the quiet villages and now loud, seemingly never-ending road walk. I'm hugely grateful for a dedicated path that crosses the estuary where herons stalk, but desperate for the beach and bush.
I spy a pizza place, not busy but the man behind the counter is impatient and sighs when I ask for a variation on the toppings. I give up and go to the supermarket instead. I realize that I’ve officially arrived in the region of Auckland. I’m still days away from the largest city in New Zealand. This just means I need to go to a different section in my trail notes. I also realize it’s way too far to the camp spot I had in mind for tonight, so I sit down on the sidewalk in a thin strip of shade to sort things out, not at all in love with this noisy town of Mangawhai.
A Finnish couple with big backpacks come out of the store and I say hello and ask them where they’re headed. To the caravan park they tell me. It’s too hot to keep walking. Yes, it is hot and this kinda sucks. I follow them on and on up the road to a tidy park with RV’s and tents in rows facing the massive harbor I spent most of my day walking around.
They set up under the only tree and even though I decide to press on, they lovely owners off me a chance to fill my water bottle before heading to the beach again.
The trail will provide, I tell myself when a car passing too fast kicks up a cloud of dust practically choking me. The trail will provide – but what?
I hear the ocean first, then spy deep blue surrounded by peach colored dunes. I walk over jellyfish like gelatinous magnifying glasses randomly dropped. Surfers ply the waves in thick neoprene. Three of them hang out by their cars and offer me an IPA aghast to discover the TA trail veers to the center of the country after Auckland, missing all the spots they love. One of them encourages me to go for it tonight and camp on the beach.
The sand is compact under my tired feet. Late in the day, the sun now behind me sets off little diamond specks of light on and off as I walk, leading the way – somewhere. I smile with a small beer and trail angel buzz.
This part of the beach all the way to Pakiri, I’m told by Angel Surfer #1, is deserted. His uncle’s is the only house on the way and he’s never there. But that isn’t exactly the case. There are others on the beach. One just finishing up fishing in the waves, another too far away, moving wood across a path.
I then run into a guy with two dogs and a beer in hand. I don’t ask for a beer this time rather I ask if I might camp on his lawn. He says he’ll be out for three hours, but to search out the little house with no roof; no one minds if you camp in the dunes, he promises me.
The little house with no roof is on spongy dune grasses, not at all conducive to a good night’s rest. But ahead I see a flat bit with mostly pingao and hairstail grass, something a bit less spiky. It’s idyllic here, with the setting sun behind me and crashing waves amidst a pink glow
I lope on over just as a couple comes out on the beach to fish. “Excuse me, might you let a weary and very quiet TA hiker to camp on your lawn?”
Praise all believers in trail magic, they say yes! And in a flash, the alicoop is up, my pegs going in easily not so much into sand, but heftier dirt. There’s an abandoned brick oven I use as a seat, bright yellow evening primrose crawling along the crumbling walls. I eat dinner with the ocean as my partner.
Not every moment of today’s long k’s was perfect, but it was all mine, including deciding to go for it when I felt the nudge to move. I knew if worse came to worse, I had all I needed with me. I also knew I could keep walking under the light of a bright half moon. But here is delight of all delights, the surprise, the unexpected, the gift I was open to receiving.